Thursday, April 17, 2014

Just read that Marquez has died. A great writer with a stunning imagination that will never be equaled in his genre, he left a large impression on me, especially with One Hundred Years of Solitude.
Here's a poem I wrote some years ago one afternoon while I was looking out my window thinking about that novel.

As you can see, I'm no Marquez. But who is?

call someone

my
house is tall and when I’m sitting at my computer I can look out and see the
roof of the house across the street. the eaves troughs are retaining water,
plants are growing there. it reminds me of that part in One Hundred Days of Solitude where it rained for four years and
vegetation sprouted from the mechanisms of tractors. but this is not Mexico. our
winters here can be cold. the water will freeze and the eaves troughs will turn
to block ice and the weight of it will pull away from the house and land on
somebody. killing them instantly. I don’t want that. Gabriel Garcia Marquez
doesn’t want that on his conscience. get a professional or get a ladder
yourself and go up there and clear out whatever is blocking the downspout.
please. literature is depending on you.